Deer Run Trail, By David R LewisNodaway Trail, by David R LewisOn the Calico Trail, by David R LewisOn the Payback Trail, by David R LewisOn the Ogallala Trail, by David R LewisOn the Killdeer Trail, by David R LewisOn the Cutthroat Trail, by David R LewisGlory Trail, by David R LewisEndless Journey Toward an Unknown Destination, by David R LewisIncidents Among the Savages, by David R LewisFear of the Father:  Call Me Crockett, by David R Lewis

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In the 1950s, the southern portions of Illinois were often much farther south than a map might indicate.  The pace of life in many of its parts was slower and more elemental than among the northern tribes, and a trip to that area could not only transport the traveler much farther south than he actually was, but also a bit back in time.  Every summer, my grandparents would make the 6 or 7 hour drive into that part of the state to visit a few scattered members of my grandfather’s clan.  The journey always included a stop just south of Vandalia, on the outskirts of a tiny town called Shobonier to spend a couple of days with my Aunt Blanche, or Ain’t Blainch, as it was pronounced locally.  A transplanted Kentucky hill woman, Blanch had that defining set of eye and configuration of nose and chin common to the breed.  Not all native Kentuckians have it, but I have never encountered anyone that did have it without Kentucky in their blood somewhere.  Blanch was a woman of the 1800s.  A visit to her place was, in many ways, a visit to that time.  Her house was without electricity, and had no plumbing of any kind.  I was not unused to that.  I recall when an actual indoor bathroom came into my life – and the convenience that accompanied it – but at Blanche’s place, in addition to the little house out behind the big house, even kitchen water was hand pumped from the outdoor cistern and carried inside in a bucket.

4 comments to Blanche

  • hotshot bald cop

    Right on my man!

  • Keeble Gold

    Heya buddy, your main blog’s layout is easy and also neat and i’m keen on it. Your blog site posts are outstanding. Make sure you keep them coming.

  • The thing I love about many of your stories is that they touch a memory for me. I may have been born in 60s, grew up in the 70s, and came of age in the 80s, but the *place* I grew up in gave me just a small taste of the life back then, where I might have a little understanding of the stories you tell. I remember the grandparents root cellar, tended the garden, and having fresh cream and butter (that I had to churn in a Dazey glass jar). These days, I sometimes wish I could go back to a life like that. Keep them coming!

  • David


    Thanks for the kind words. Most of what I do is to bring back memories or give sombody a giggle. A little of it is pure self-indulgence and the distribution of my small grandure. In other words, crap.

    Thanks again,

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